The Last Goodnight
by Devour
Summary: A collection of House/Wilson one shots, each inspired by a different song from the album 'Poison Kiss' by The Last Goodnight. Chapter 2: Pictures Of You - Wilson looks reflects on a photo of him and House.
1. Poison Kiss

**Disclaimer: **I own neither the show House or the album Poison Kiss. I'm just messing with them, that's all...**  
**

**Author's note:** This is a collection of fics in response to a challenge that I've twisted a little. I first decided to do this when reading Snowfilly's _Fragments of Forever_, in which she took an album and wrote a drabble based on the title of every song. I'm using the same basic premise, but instead of a drabble I'll be writing a longer fic for each song, and I'll be using two lines from the song as well as its title for inspiration. The album is Poison Kiss by The Last Goodnight, and each fic will be exploring the House/Wilson relationship - primarily romance and angst in varying degrees depending on the song and the lyrics. Each chapter is a separate fic and can thus be read on its own. This is my first real attempt at writing angst, so any concrit to help me find my feet is welcome!

* * *

**Poison Kiss** _  
Your eyes don't lie, they give you away.  
You say, you say: everything is different today._

* * *

Wilson was avoiding him. 

On a normal day, House would have talked to his friend at least once by this stage of the afternoon. It was three o'clock, and by now their paths should have crossed in the hallway, or in a consult, or maybe even in Cuddy's office.

And if there hadn't been any such occasion to meet before lunch, they would have made a point to seek each other out in the cafeteria and share a friendly snipe over Wilson's plate of chips.

But not today.

He'd caught a glimpse of Wilson whilst he was in the lunch line - their eyes had even met across the scattering of tables on the floor. But that simple glance had been enough to push the oncologist into grabbing his half eaten sandwich and leaving. By the time House had limped to the table, he was gone.

Wilson was avoiding him. And they both knew why.

House wasn't the type of person to talk about personal issues. Sure, he enjoyed the odd bit of gossip now and then - if 'now and then' was code for 'whenever the opportunity arose in Wilson's office' - but he tended to steer clear of the deep conversations that really dug into one's emotions.

But if it came to a choice between confronting one such issue and having a best friend to talk to, there was only so long that he could hold out for before he capitulated.

Besides, having to pay for his own lunch sucked.

And so it was that, come mid afternoon, House found himself standing on the balcony outside Wilson's office door. The main door, the one that bore its owner's name and title so proudly, had been locked. As had this one, as a matter of a fact - but this door had glass panes, and was consequently see through.

He stood there, trying to be patient, watching as Wilson flicked through a file, pausing here and there to make notes. He twirled his cane, tapped the foot belonging to his uninjured leg and drummed his fingers against the door handle in various attempts to while away the time.

Before a minute was up, House was bored - he never had been one for waiting. He knew that the man inside was aware of his presence; Wilson simply didn't want to let him in. Well, he'd give him a reason to open the door then.

House lifted his cane and began rapping against the glass in a steady, jarring rhythm.

It took another minute for Wilson to cave. Jerking his head in irritation, he got up to unlock the door. As House limped into the office, he returned to his desk and continued with the paperwork that was spread out before him.

House perched himself on the couch. When Wilson took no further notice of him, he decided to fill the silence himself.

"Can we just fast forward to the part where you stop avoiding me so we can skip all this?"

"I'm busy."

"So you're telling me that you _haven't_ been avoiding me all day?"

"Been working."

House snorted in disbelief, but Wilson refused to look up.

"That's why it's called work, you see, because you're supposed to do work when you're here." The retort lacked its usual bite. In fact, Wilson's voice sounded rather tired, stripped of its usually light tone. "So just get out and stop bothering me."

"This is ridiculous." House's mutter was ignored as the other doctor turned a page. "You can't stop talking to me just because of last night-"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Wilson's interruption was tight. Terse. Controlled.

House limped towards the desk and snatched the file away, tossing it into the bin. Agitated, Wilson threw his pen down and growled. "Did it ever occur to you that I might need some time to think about it? Time that didn't involve seeing your face every half hour?" He couldn't quite keep the tremor from creeping into his voice.

Visibly affronted, House made no effort to contain the outburst that was threatening to erupt from his mouth.

"There's nothing to think about! It was just a kiss - a stupid, drunken kiss! It didn't _mean_ anything!"

There was a tense pause as both men froze with this statement. The silence seemed to stretch on, until-

"Yes, it did."

In a stark contrast to House's previously passionate cry, Wilson's voice was so quiet that it was almost imperceptible. But those three simple words resonated throughout the room, and the reverberating waves of their impact hung heavily in the stillness between the two men.

For the first time since House had entered the office, Wilson raised his eyes and the two men locked gazes.

There was an involuntarily sharp intake of breath as House realised the depth of emotion laden in that one torturous glance. Subconsciously, his mind worked to decipher them all - hope, hesitation, unease, and at the fore, longing - but consciously, he just stood and watched, saying nothing.

A convulsive tightening of his fist was all that betrayed his reaction to the revelation, but Wilson didn't notice.

The pause was stretched as each was unable to break away from the other's stare. But then something snapped, and what Wilson perceived as a lack of response was enough for him. With his mouth set grimly, he swung away from his desk and turned to leave.

"Wilson, I-" But House regretted opening his mouth as soon as he did so, because he had no words to express how he felt. Hell, _he_ didn't even know how he felt.

"You what, House? You what?" Wilson's voice cracked with barely suppressed emotion as he wrenched the door open roughly. "You... you can't just kiss me and expect to go on like we always have. It's not the same any more; _I'm_ not the same. We can't all be unfeeling bastards like you."

He slammed the door, leaving behind a stricken House clutching his cane with white knuckles.

Alone.


	2. Pictures Of You

**Author's note:** I am so sorry for the delay between updates! I was planning on doing the chapters in the same order as the songs on the album but I hit this massive block writing up a chapter for the second song. So I decided to toss that idea out the window and am now back on track... unless uni starts getting in the way. But until then, here's the next chapter - hope you guys like it!

* * *

**Pictures Of You**_  
There is a title we can't win  
no matter how hard we might swing._

* * *

The envelope had been inconspicuously wedged between a stack of patient files and his pay cheque for the month.

Juggling the pile of paper in one hand and a tray of coffees in the other, Wilson didn't notice its existence until he had reached his office. Only after he had carefully set aside a coffee for House and begun sorting through his paperwork did he realise that there was a foreign object in the pile.

He picked up the envelope and, immediately recognising the hand that had written his name as belonging to the hospital administrator, deftly flipped it over. What could Cuddy have to say that couldn't be communicated face to face, or on the phone?

A love letter, he mused as he sipped his own coffee and rummaged in a drawer for his letter opener.

Moments later, he stopped himself, snorting. Clearly, all that time he spent with House was having a bad influence on his thoughts regarding the Dean of Medicine.

Having procured the object in question, Wilson slit the envelope open and turned it upside down, shaking vigorously. Two separate objects fell onto his desk: a sheet of paper, folded in two, and what appeared to be the back of a photograph. The latter bore a series of numbers - _01/01/08_. A date, he realised.

Assuming that it contained a note of explanation, he unfolded the piece of paper with raised eyebrows and scanned its contents.

_Thought you might like to have a copy. Looks like both of you had a bit too much to drink that night. Either that, or the rumours are true and you two really are gay. Don't worry, I'll keep your secret._

_L.C._

Wilson almost dropped his coffee as the insinuations behind the letter hit him - there was only one rumour circulating throughout the hospital grapevine that she could be referring to.

It took a second reading of the scribbled note for him to realise that the reference was in jest, though this recognition did not prevent trepidation from creeping over him as he turned the photo over.

It was House.

Well, _him_ and House to be precise.

There they were, lying on the very couch that stood several feet away from him now. He hadn't realised that anyone else had been into his office that night - the party was several floors away in the lobby, so why Cuddy had been in a position to snap a photo of them was beyond him.

He thought back to that night. Certainly, they _had _been drunk - or at least they'd lost enough of their inhibitions to risk making out in his office. Wilson frowned. No, _he_ had lost enough of _his_ inhibitions... House probably wouldn't have cared if they'd been caught.

But he'd been conscious enough to remember drifting off to sleep with his arms wrapped around House's waist, with the other man's head tucked in the crook of his neck. Clearly they had shifted out of this position sometime in the night - the photo showed House sprawled on the couch, and himself facing the opposite direction with most of his body lying on the floor. He had woken that morning with such a piercing headache that he hadn't even been aware of being pushed onto the ground halfway through the night.

Perhaps it was for the best. If Cuddy had walked in to see him spooning House in his sleep, he suspected she'd find it far harder to attribute the incident to alcohol, and he'd have a lot more explaining to do.

Wilson brushed his fingers gently over the photo, smiling in reminiscence. What Cuddy had seen as evidence proving that they had been completely drunk, he saw as marks of their affectionate romping that night: the ruffled hair, the disheveled clothing, and above all, the relaxed slouch of the two men who had collapsed together on the couch.

She didn't even consider that it could signify something else. That the pair of them could be anything other than two friends who had crumpled in a drunken fit on the same sofa.

He sighed. Although he often told himself that he was happy with the current status of his relationship with House, that he wouldn't be able to deal with the consequences and backlash that would surely accompany their coming out, he couldn't help occasionally wishing that they could be taken seriously as lovers. That people wouldn't discuss their relationship as a rumour that was seen to be as impossible as it was amusing.

Wilson knew it would never happen, simply because everyone's preconceived notions of the relationship between the oncologist and the diagnostician. It was unusual, sarcastic, strong... but ultimately, it was one of friendship. Anything else, they felt, would be absurd, and nothing he nor House did would change that.

He'd never told House, who would have scoffed at such a regard for the opinions of other people. Sometimes he considered doing so - that way, he could get the lecture that would put him off thinking of such a thing ever again.

But he didn't, for while he held onto the thought, he had something to wish for; and while he had wishes, he had the hope that some day, they would be accepted for who they were.

Shaking his head as he reminded himself how much paperwork he had left to be done, Wilson slid the photo into his pocket and picked up a file from his desk.


End file.
